Category Archives: vintage Boomer porn

I don’t have fancy websites. I have functioning websites.

To answer people who ask how they can stake a claim to a working web domain for their own endeavors, here’s a recap.  In keeping with the indie aspect of my publishing business, I maintain my own online catalog to connect readers to book info and buy-links. Text is presented in columns, featuring book covers and snap-shot reviews.  I color-block a top banner with navigation links.  Click-tap-poke around and you’ll get bio and contact info, “Look Inside” book samples, fan page and interviews.  I want to engage with people who can read the following sentence and “get” it:  “This is Libertine literature, the call of the wild to the rowdy.”  They also “get” this exchange:  “Spread ‘em.”  “Spread me.”  It’s all about the words.  “Slither hither.”

Don’t let the grass-roots simplicity of my presentation confuse you: live links interweave my message into the web-of-ever.  I don’t have time to fuss, not if I want to keep making books.  I happen to like my tech home-grown.  Committee-free.  The books, the blog, the connecting linkage is a solo effort.   [See Tech Note at end for details.]

KathleenK.com is the anchor site, I grabbed that domain name in 1997 when my first book went to paperback.  I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my own domain but it seemed handy to have, you know, if that Star Trek communicator stuff ever really caught on. 

Context Clue:  September 15, 1997 – The domain name for the web search engine Google is registered.

KathleenK.xxx was acquired when that adults-only domain became available.

KathleenKBooks.com uses the other two sites as collector-distributors to point readers to this indie business of making high quality books at reasonable prices for sophisticated readers.  You have to consider the framework carefully just in case you actually stir up some traffic.  Keep it simple, make it strong.

Once you do wander into my domain, I trust you web crawlers are readers and I promise that there is plenty of depth at these sites for the curious, and spice for the profane.

Then I took the most basic concept of Search Engine Optimization and named my web pages in a style that the content-robots prefer to digest.  By repeating key words in the link names themselves, I insinuated the same phrases over and over into the world wide index.

kathleenkbooks_erotica_narrative_fiction_buylinks.htm

kathleenkbooks_erotica_narrative_fiction_contact.htm

kathleenkbooks_erotica_narrative_fiction_sitemap.htm

kathleenk.xxx/sweet_talkers_phone_sex_erotica_curiosa.htm

kathleenk.xxx/the­_lunarium­_erotica­­­_voyeurism.htm

Once I had books to cross-reference, the pattern asserted itself.  Building this simple structure around eleven books (so far) and a blog, earns my books first-page results in online searches for “kathleenk erotica” and “kathleenk fiction” and “kathleenk curiosa” and “kathleenk books” and “kathleenk author” and ”kathleenk rowdier reader”.

BRANDING.  We still fall for shiny objects.  We know the words to product jingles, we sling the slogans.  I’ve got an easy one for you:  KathleenK.  It’s the key to a lively world of counterculture commentary and enticing books promoting sexual thoughtfulness.  Available through the global gateway of Amazon.com.

#KathleenK #indieauthor #sexybook

TECH NOTE to DIY web folk:  Word-format documents are Saved-As HTML pages, then uploaded using FileZilla.  The simple content translates well from full-size monitor to hand-held devices because the columns segment the pages nicely.  This linking model works for any reliable-organized web master.  Do your own work on the site(s) devoted to your enterprise and the site(s) will be imbued with your values. 

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In Praise of High Spirits. 420 2014

Pot can make you dangerously stupid but that’s more about you than about pot.  You’re the puking drunk outside the casino, you scream on E when everybody else just dances it off.  I’m not talking to you here.

Some folks like pot for the jovial let-it-be vibe that comes from biochem reality, the expansive mood is caused by neuroreceptors recepting THC.

Why do we have THC receptors in the human brain?

Here in Washington State there is the tacit admission that we voted for stoner emancipation, permitting it not just in the medicinal marketplace.  My word to the tribe:  keep it precious.  Don’t waste weed greasing the every-day duties of your life.  Savor it, have a ceremony, prepare yourself to be free to enjoy it.  Then, flip, flop and fly!  Let yourself go.  This too shall pass.  It’s the same as a shot of Bailey’s in your Saturday morning coffee; it’s a bit of a kick.  A little jolt.  Zing-a-ding.

Drugs in general and weed in particular are in opposition to productivity and accomplishment.  The solution to that problem lies in the whole moderation thing.  Not too serious, not too silly.  Just right.  Put yourself in vacation mode for most effective marijuana mind-alteration.  Gear down to the basic you, clear the decks, put on your comfy pants, find that certain blue cap that feels so good on your head.  Set your scene, collect your props.  Imbue the moment with mood before you fire up the pipe and grok potcentric.

______________________________

pot-face

The Stoner books are richly written, layering in suggestive references and witty word play, covertly overt.  We chase the ideas of this freewheeling sex & drugs exposé because there’s more going on than a literal toke-and-poke manifesto.  This man “gets” women.  He “gets” high.  He’s promoting stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness by inhaling and exhaling simple truths.  Stoner shares his point of view with such precision that he elevates the format to “a memorable sexual escapade”…

These two books create a grassroots oasis in my Private Publications of erotic and sexotic books for the rowdier reader by espousing a lifestyle of tolerance toward the high, the unhigh and the diff-high.  They were written before the legalization movement actually notched any states who would go further than medical pot, and many still don’t even do that.  The social value has shifted on the medical issue which blurs the line on the recreational aspects.  Once you have the substance in the hands of users, they’ll dose themselves with more and less success.  Just like some people enjoy an evening of poker from time to time and others get their fingers broken in a Vegas alley.  (Moderation.)

4/20 Video Recommendation

Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story)

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

#potcentric #420 #RowdierReader #marijuana.com

 

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Adulterated Love. Sex + Drugs. Prepare for 420 2014

The lyric recollections of Stoner, a fictional memoirist capturing his quest for romance and reefer, are not confessions of a carouser. He’s a man with a plan to balance his work-a-day world with dreamy nights of possibility. He savors his moments, polishes them. His skill with women starts with his choice of woman: he goes for the sane ones, the wary not the paranoid; does she maintain a stable orbit – can they synchronize?

The pot thing is a natural element in his society, his filthy drug habit is mild compared to the pharmaceutical pleasure-pills and addictive opioids and brain-blowers like speedy acid. He rolls right along, not begrudging the drinkers and tobacco smokers their social acceptance. It’s only a matter of time before marijuana settles back where it belongs, like liquor and porn, responding to the marketplace.  What?  Him worry?  He no think so.

These two potcentric sexotic Stoner books come highly recommended.

Written in a loose, free-wheeling prose that mimics the narrator’s lifestyle, the story glides from woman to woman and bong hit to bong hit without the burdens of plot or conflict.

… a memorable sexual escapade.

 By Kirkus Reviews Dec. 2012 re: Stoner with a boner

He likes pot but he loves sex.

__________________________________________________

After pg 104   by Barry “Mandot” Messer

SAMPLE: Stoner’s Bone of Contention by Kathleen K.

I was indentured to a lady mechanic who promised to teach me how to maintain my own vehicle in exchange for driving her crazy from time to time. She was all business down at the shop, demonstrating how I could change my car’s oil, check the hoses and fuses, tighten the connections, loosen the throttle… stuff I knew in theory that she put into practice. I chained up my tires a few times, I replaced my headlamps. I mastered my vehicle for real.

Her actual name is unusual so I’m disguising her as Irina, vaguely Slavic in looks and manner, not as brash as an American, perhaps Canadian? Lovely to look at, Irina was enchanting to consider as a partner, in her fitted overall dungarees and tight ribbed long-sleeve tee-shirt. You notice her hands are tattooed, subtly, almost like henna but the markings pick up color as they cross up her wrists. She was shy to reveal her body to me, it was fully tattooed, sleeves on both arms, images twining up her legs to flower on her thighs. She asked me not to speak of them, not to her or to anyone who knew her (but said yes when I asked if I could include her here); etched into her skin was the work of many people, over a long time, badges of things I’d never be told. She’d show up at my door, as we arranged in exchange for the car stuff, and we’d share a bong before we doused the lights.

I understood what she wanted, she’d been able to explain how I fit in her bigger picture, that I wasn’t being used to make somebody else jealous, I wasn’t a substitute for a heart-wrenching love. She wanted to be held and felt and fingered and fucked and tucked into sleep in the dimmest of lights, she wanted me to know her shape, not her surface, to seize her pieces in my hands as if they were as ordinary and unmarked as any other.

Irina was soft in my hands, her bones well hidden in plump firm skin, her voluptuous shape pressed against me from all angles, contorting around me to maintain maximum skin time, my entire body engaged in containing her. Heavy globes with outsize nipples thrust forward from her chest, counterbalanced by her generous ass, looking firm but jiggling when she moved. She acted with a single aim to keep me interested, to hold my focus. She moved and I moved, I surrendered to her schedule but held my own when the time came. She was a shape in the dim to me; her movements were shadowed, still I felt their impact.

I was going through a phase in my life when I had withdrawn from the romantic arena. There was no fight left in me, I didn’t have fuel to ignite a connection so it took someone like Irina to note my utility as a toy. I had to be solid and knowable, set a low flame, a functioning male but lacking interest in being a sociable human. I had to be the kind of guy who would evaluate Irina’s offer and see she was talking about an exchange. She wasn’t giving me anything sexual, it was just the opposite; what she gave me was lessons on car maintenance, what she asked for was simple intercourse, spicy and hot, within a specified time frame.

≤÷≥

I run into all kinds of deal-makers when out and about. Pot dealers. Sex dealers. It’s part of the fun of being free with my time.

“I cream for cash.”

“Only?”

“Best.”

“Let me check my wallet. Whip cream?”

“Double cream.”

≤÷≥

I can’t say that I’m used to being naked. I get naked. I like being naked. I’m always aware I’m naked, I feel the air on me, I catch sight of stuff I don’t usually see, and I am at ease in the sense I’m fit for duty.

No, I’m not a nudist. It’s always going to heighten my senses to remove all my armor; it is an unsheathing of the weapon-temple-casing that is closest to the essential me.

When I see naked women I feel that same jitter, I’ve been intimate to varying degrees with a rich pool of females and can say that if they are naked or not naked is a defining moment. They can be disheveled, unbuttoned and unsnapped, even half-naked, still they are protected by fabric.

When everything falls away there is the strictest of taboos broken, it is a crossing over to an admission of your basic presentation. No high heels, no push-up bras, no shaping of any sort: being naked makes us feel vulnerable.

A few times, she beat me to it and I had the odd sensation of being (at least partially) dressed in the presence of a nude woman. She was stripped of something that I retained. I might join her sooner or later but for that moment we were not equally invested in the outcome. It would be easier for me to turn and walk away still clothed than for her to first have to dress before making an exit.

I never again would have not seen her naked.

≤÷≥

After a hike we boiled up water for coffee or tea. We shared pot-nut bread for desert. We had each contributed some bud for our baker buddy to transubstantiate into some edible form, and we warned our guests to think clearly before we brought them to the camp site (because they sure wouldn’t after they got there). We were in the middle of a forest on a huge plateau, cushioned by good quality camping gear, with lanterns, flash­lights, and spare flashlights. We were anchored there, having agreed that the cars’ keys would be locked in the tackle box then held by Darren, our designated straight guy. Nobody was going anywhere physical on this partic­ular trip, it was all about our surroundings and each other, what we felt and thought.

Things got a bit blurry between sundown and moonrise but then at some point a stout woman backed me up against the trunk of a tall strong pine tree, I was caught up in the contrast of rough bark and her fluffy sexy self pressed against my front. Even as she knocked her crotch against mine, I whispered to her to tell me her name. Who was she? I knew what she was doing. I liked how she was doing it. I didn’t need her address. I needed her name so I could tell her what this all felt like, the woods and her hot honey scent mixing in my mind, my curiosity rising. Nothing more was going to happen, we were all overnighting as buddies, we were not pairing off, and as far as I knew I’d never get this close to her again. When we broke apart, sometime later but much too soon, I was thrilled that eventually I’d be in my sleeping bag under the stars bathed in moonlight with a simmering memory of this one particular woman, Jenny…. Jenny pushed me against the tree, Jenny whispered her own name to me, she gave a little shiver when I said her name, ohh, Jenny… you feel dreamy to me, delightful. You are magnificent tonight, sweet Jenny. A touch of aggression, a hint of compliance. Remarkable. I’ll think of you, I’ll think of this. I like who you are. Jenny.

≤÷≥

END SAMPLE

 

I have a standing offer to my fans for review copiesAPRIL 2014 LIMITED OFFER for free book.  Let me know if you’re curious.  Act now to have smokin’ hot reading material on hand for 420.   Info@KathleenKBooks.com

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

KathleenKBooks.com       Fan Page

#sexybook #potcentric #RowdierReader #420

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eFingered and Eyed by Devotees: Erotic writer’s fantasy

As an indie publisher of erotic and sexotic books, it is my fantasy to have my books Eyed and eFingered by readers who “get” me; I like surprising them with a treasure trove of lush language and tart dialog.  It’s all about sex, deft and explicit.

KathleenKBooks.com has a simple business plan: wicked good reads at reasonable prices. Between $5 and $10, print and Kindle. I appeal to impulse buyers (their feelings move them to action) who read for fun.  Counterculture themes don’t unnerve them if the story holds.  They like it spicy.

Rowdier readers are hard to target because they camouflage their interests out of social pragmatism… erotica is still stigmatized. That’s where the Kindle comes in. For your eyes only. The print versions are tailored for the nightstand, constructed vignette style so you can read a little or read a lot. I surrender digital versions to my stealth fans who suppress the deliberately-designed front-spine-backs into a hard-shell anonymizer.

That’s OK, the contents can stand unadorned on a glowing screen and still you move word by word, seeing through the eyes of the narrator, looking behind the words to discern the meaning. No hurry but plenty of rush.

These bedside readers fit in a rich niche of sex lit tradition:  bawdy and wry in colloquial language.  Vignette collections are the most inclusive of erotica based as they are on multitudes of moments with infinite points of connection.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.  I give a lot of latitude to the reader.  I’ve been told that sassy, sexy, smart erotica is not for everybody but, then again, I’m not reaching out to everybody… I am seeking the well-read, the voracious consumers of sexy books that offer compelling word choices and adroit emotions.

PP Native Cover.4539172.indd

SAMPLE from Honey B., Sexual Consultant

I helped a young man create a beautiful collage of Polaroids he’d taken of himself making love with his young woman. I was to consider how she might feel about various poses he’d captured. He wanted to pick the best blend, not just the ones that appealed to him. I did yank a few of his choices, either because they were repetitive or because, for example, he loved one image of his lips at her nipple so didn’t notice her ass looked a mile wide. We cropped that photo which led to him reducing other snapshots to essential elements. He was glad he’d asked me to help because I included four photos he had dismissed as unfocused but I felt they lent relief from his graphic choices. I suggested he put the collage against the headboard in front of his kneeling blindfolded wife and, after inserting himself into her luscious cunny, remove the blindfold and let her see what he “saw” when he thought of this very thing, their loving, their fucking, their sex.

**

I often assisted people in composing ads for swinger magazines. People on the verge of swinging are quite likely to benefit from a visit with me. Formerly formless fantasies are crossing into reality. They are ready to engage in a subculture that trips their deepest triggers.

Swingers are generally law-abiding, employed, vehicle-equipped and middle class. They do not want to pollute their daily lives with sexual intrigue but still they wish to indulge themselves in private interludes of sexual adventure. What better way than to meet the proverbial stranger, a stranger organized enough to join a club and get a code number, and have an address and pen-paper-envelope-postage. Dismissing the straight personal ads because they featured people who don’t want to admit they’re primarily motivated by sexual rather than social longings, like‑minded individuals turn to contact magazines that cut to the chase.

——————————–

Single female insists on big brain, long fuse and common sense in a mannered man. See picture. Write letter. Save time, don’t lie.

———————————

He: 6’2″, 195#, 30-something. She: 5’7″, 140#, 25-ish, shaved. Watchers welcome. Pictures for trade. No hands-on.

——————————–

Does anyone out there remember the zipless fuck? Forget the flowers, bring the condoms. W/F married but swinging alone. 33. 38-28-41.

——————————–

Teacher seeks pupil. Instruction available in all aspects of service to your teacher. Please realize your letter will be graded for both content and form (neatness counts). There will be oral exams.

———————————

Big-assed bitch with bountiful tits wants bad boy in bed. Single men only, sneaks need not apply.

——————————–

We seek physically fit couples for sexual sports. J. (with beard) is 40, 5-10, 170. A. (with breasts) is 45, 5-10, 135. Watch/be watched.

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END SAMPLE

 

It takes an independent publisher to stockpile inventory with no meaningful sales to offset the cost of production – no corporate board would tolerate that. I flipped the math around, once I paid for a book master it was done, any money that came back was a bonus. Making the books was an act of faith at my own expense. I’d find something to do with them all, once they were actualized: finalized: commercialized.

I have crafted eleven books with more to come. There is a deep sense of pleasure in offering these as an indie author because each is a holistic act from conception through delivery.  Guaranteed Committee-free.  The stories boiled and bubbled in draft form for years as they were sharpened and pruned, spruced up, subdivided and reunited. One by one the books crystallized. They are hand-fashioned ornaments meant to enchant. There isn’t a trick to writing erotic-sexotic literature, it is knowing the value of anticipation and complete release.

I am reaching out, rowdier readers, inviting you to echo back.  I have a standing offer to my fans for review copiesAPRIL 2014 LIMITED OFFER for free book.  Let me know if you’re curious.  Info@KathleenKBooks.com

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

#erotica #RowdierReader #KathleenK

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Your brain on weed… Kathleen K. invites you to read (Index of Posts)

Your brain on weed.  It ain’t just the THC, there is an “entourage” effect with all its ingredients.

When Mechoulam’s team identified the first known endogenous cannabinoid, a chemical actually made by the brain itself, he named it “anandamide.” In the Sanskrit language, ananda means “supreme bliss,” which gives us some insight into what Mechoulam thinks of cannabinoids overall.

Marijuana Chronicles  As author of the Stoner series, I promote cultivating the culture.  We don’t all agree which makes it a good topic of conversation.

Pot Power & Politics

Plenty of buzz out there about marijuana.  We’re still far from it being “conformed” into legitimate commerce but we’re on our way.  The ugly truth is some are going to misuse it, like all the fun stuff, and that isn’t reason enough to deny the majority of regular users a substance equivalent to alcohol in terms of being an intoxicant with measurable impact on the body.  The medical argument is persuasive but that’s not what we’re aiming for… not in Colorado.  Not in Washington State.  Let the true value of the plant establish itself in our free society.

The medical facts are astounding, it’s an important reason to create distribution channels, but there remains the “blissful feeling” of getting high.

Marijuana can be a natural remedy for anxiety and sadness for some people which is no more sinister than diabetics needing insulin, a bit of a biochemical boost on the order of a supplement.  The test is the rest of your time.  If things are going to hell in a hand basket then maybe pot is clouding your vision.  If the job is OK and the housing is pleasing and amenities are available then hitting the bong before bed can be clarifying.  Like a glass of fine wine.  Grapes v. Leaves.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered.  [Extra points if you can identify the reference.]  Pot is supposed to unsettle you, why else bother?  A shot and a beer back is a known mood-changer.  Same so the allure of any intoxicant:  remove the safety.

A few rules:  Don’t operate complex equipment.  Keep away from children.  Don’t prove yourself unworthy.

Excerpt from Stoner’s Bone of Contention available in print and Kindle formats.

I don’t need a lot of laws to control my behavior: don’t drive stupid, don’t act stupid, and don’t perpetuate stupid. I don’t need laws against variations of drunk driving, distracted driving, reckless driving… it’s all stupid driving. The stupider the infraction, the more distressing the payback assigned. Drug laws are no different, too much detail in the no-no-no. If we apply the Stupid Standard, then the drug isn’t illegal, the Stupid is.

_________________________________

“You gotta change the bong water, man.”

“It’s not just the water, the whole pipe’s gunked up.”

“You got any others?”

“… I actually do.”

“So, … are you going to go get one?”

“I’ll have to put water in it first.”

“No, first you have to go get the pipe.”

“Then I put the water in.”

“That’s right. Then give it to me because I don’t think you need any more smoke.”

_________________________________

KathleenK.xxx

#legalizeweed #stonerliteracy #KathleenK

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Erotic Science: the receptor-rich region between lady legs

Naomi Wolf’s Vagina, A New Biography, blends science, myth, personal experience and heart to put words to the beauty and the power of the female nervous system as it relates to the receptor-rich region between lady legs.  This fits with Wolfe’s literary examination of culture (and lack of it) that drives gender dynamics with an emphasis on female rights and feminine roles.

As an indie-author of erotic-sexotic literature, I prize a book like this for its rich and deep ideas.  It lays out the science and illustrates the splendor of the body.  It is possible to skip around this well-written study rather than follow the straight-line narrative so that you get splashes of the bigger picture.  There is nothing choppy about the presentation, its smooth roll allows the reader to skip along at their own pace.

Readers will ask me where I get my authority to specialize in sexual philosophy… it’s from reading books like this.  Many people have taken the time to record the progression of thought about the human condition, and what strikes me is the gender gap.  Men may claim to believe in science but how can they ignore the existential complexity of the female reproductive system as an indicator of natural value?  That clitoral pleasure center isn’t just human, it’s mammalian.  The Ultimate Creative Force, even if it was the force of chance, constructed composite biology to serve reproduction across species.  It’s the pole-hole thing.  Not only are women different from men, they differ among themselves because female genitalia are configured with various nerve-ending patterns that become recognizable with study.  (I’m telling you, read Vagina.)

Males are designed to intrude upon their mate.  This polarity causes the “attraction” of two necessary elements.  Sex is risky and exhilarating; animals of all kinds maneuver themselves procreationally.  Males come and go, any other parenting behavior by males is by choice or custom but not, per se, required.  In a practical sense, women cannot easily displace an established pregnancy.  Terminating a pregnancy is life altering by definition.  As talents go, giving birth is still the greatest glory of the body:  be it bear, ostrich or human.  Men have no analog for pregnancy.  None.  It is not within their make-up to be inhabited by another soul.

Linking body function and creativity-joy is done at the neural level as heralded by nerve centers throughout the body.  All humans are hardwired for brain-change during sex.  Women’s systems process more physical input.  Give it up, guys, the intensity of your passion is not questioned but the nuance is yours to orchestrate yet never experience.  The sex-life functions do differ by gender, as hammered into our culture by men, but the SIGNIFICANCE was misunderstood.  By design, by bodily actuality, by functional purpose, men are essentially episodic and redundant.  It’s the math of survivability.  When push comes to shove, if only 100 people could survive Armageddon you’d want 10 men and 90 women.  In a pinch, 8 and 92.  (The gender-ratio will shift toward balance dramatically in the second generation.)

As far as I can see, being assigned the task of giving birth is the only gender-based bio-advantage that is quantifiable when viewed in the extreme.  The rest of the reasons for gender preference are ineffable.

_______________________________________

I invite you to consider this collection of voyeuristic vignettes as an example of inventive intelligent erotica aimed at sophisticated readers:

The Lunarium by Kathleen K.

______________________________________

NoyMommyPornThis is not your mommy’s porn.

Twenty-One Questions for Indie-Author Kathleen K.

Twitter.com/kathleenkxxx

Kathleen K. Info/Buy Links

#erotica #GenderDynamics #Wolf’sVagina

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Putting Honey B., Sexual Consultant to bed

Honey2 Cover = OK

The second Honey B. book in the sexotic quintet about a retired sex professional has been put to bed.  That means I am done writing it and even done correcting it for publication.  As with the first volume, Honey B., The Suite Life, this is a frank and detailed consideration of sexuality.  Explicit, informative, oddly thoughtful.  This is book #11 in the Private Publications of Kathleen K., independent author and counter-culture commentator.

put something to bed

Fig. to complete work on something and send it on to the next step in production, especially in publishing. (From put someone to bed.) This week’s edition is finished. Let’s put it to bed. Finish the editing of this book and put it to bed.

See also: bed, put

McGraw-Hill Dictionary of American Idioms and Phrasal Verbs. © 2002 by The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc.


SAMPLE – for mature audiences only – for the rowdier reader at KathleenK.xxx

Honey B., Sexual Consultant  — Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial Satisfaction

I give Frank advice about Dick.  That’s the perfect take on my attitude:  an obvious message, a twist of wit.  These tête-à-têtes rustle past the social facts and get to the frustration.  Sex consultations are a forum for direct language and tart dialog about physique and technique.  I am not going to force people forward since that doesn’t work, I am going to beckon to them, I’m up ahead here… just for now, come this way.

Cocks and cunnies and the abyss in between.  Men have such peculiar beliefs about what happens when they unsheathe their phallic arsenal:  I have to tell them women will not swoon simply because Dick Ball-Ball bobbed into view; I have to tell them that women have a wide-focus view on a man’s sexuality with the groin area central but not supreme.  When women want to please a man they are goal-directed as suits his nature but when seeking their own gratification the action is progressive.

I have to tell women that men do not, as a rule, care about what women care about so that is not a viable avenue of exchange in the boudoir.  Women, oh… dear.  It is so much more direct than your magazines are telling you.  You have got to HANDLE your man.  Get your mitts on him.  Grope the guy.  Men don’t work on a figurative level for sex, it’s corporeal (the exact word for having physical substance), actions matter.  Women need to translate their dramatic-romantic fantasies into tangible gestures applied directly and repeatedly.  Men have trained their dicks by vigorous spanking, it takes a sustained effort to achieve liftoff; cooing and coaxing won’t work, you have got to bang it out.

We talk about pity fucks, and get-off-already sex; we talk about really really good sex where you’re slippin’ and slidin’, and crazy primal sex which usually involves an unexpected pairing.  There is something sexually galvanizing when a person previously considered unsuitable-unattainable is doing it with you.  Doing it.  It’s humping in a bathroom at a house party, it’s being picked up in a bar and renting a room-by-the-hour because neither of you had ever done that.  Unfettered by the usual connections, these episodes flare in our imaginations, they set the bar for sexual events that follow.  Their unpredictability is part of their value.  You just never know.

You just never know.

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Brandy fantasized about dropping to her knees in front of a man and liberating his cock from his pants so she could conquer it with her face, run it along her cheek, knock it against her lips, until it was bursting, juicy, and at the moment of ejaculation the man would fall back, satiated, but she would still have the cock in her mouth, it would stretch and stretch as he fell away.

|||||

Brandy wanted to drive to the bus station nearest the nearest minimum security prison because she knew that parolees were dropped there as their last official act in the system.  Only bona fide sponsor relatives could pick you up at the gate, but she wasn’t thinking of a guy with a family.  She wanted to give a lift to a newly freed man with no place special to go.  She wanted to be driving and feel his need shimmer between them.  She would pull over to the side of the road and tell him he had five minutes to lick and tickle but he’d have to wait for the rest.  She’d wear something easy to get his hands into, a loose skirt, a tight shirt with only two buttons.  She’d have on a garter belt, obviously, and no panties, naturally, and she’d come on his thumb when he cupped her crotch the way she liked.

Contrary to the simplistic idea that the man would insist on getting his penis inside her immediately, she was convinced it was more important that someone acknowledge his appeal to women  That he wanted her was obvious, he wanted to see her want him.  He’d kept this side of himself hidden in prison, locked away even from his own realization for the most part, and here was someone celebrating his glorious hard on, coaxing his groans.  She was sure he’d come, a messy scream of semen and success:  he was free, it was happening!  He’d come his heart out for her.  Because she’d do the same for him

|||||

|||||

Several women have complained to me about their breast implants, either as the main topic or in asides when relating details of their sexual lives.  It isn’t bad enough they didn’t like their original boobs, they found the fake ones stuck out fine but otherwise were troublesome.  These things never rested!  They jutted out at all times no matter what position the body assumed.  Many men think they look fine but are less impressed by their relentless buoyancy.  Faux tits don’t spread like the real thing when you are chest to chest, they don’t jiggle when they bounce, they are like balloons full to bursting (boing boing not bobble-wobble).  My opinion is that the body has made it clear it dislikes foreign substances and in the main you should stick to original parts unless the alternative is no part: reconstruct after loss, sure, but leave the outward appearance to your tailor not your surgeon.  People who see you naked should see the real you, the rest of the world can see the mask and costume.

I advocate removal of implants when possible, you can tuck up the extra skin and be thankful for the memories.  Women who agree to this have made peace with their adventure to Bazooms’R Us and not coincidentally also have sex partners who love more than just the cup size of their bras.  Newer methods of bust enhancement produce a more lifelike imitation but this is where one’s ethics or common sense comes in.  My scientific sense says stay out of the operating room for your cosmetology.

|||||

Barney didn’t care what Carol’s tits felt like, he rarely touched them.  He looked at them.  He stared at them.  He asked her to walk bare-chested around the house.  He bought her dozens of bras which he loved to watch her take off.  If he entered her body from the back it was in front of a mirror so he could see her titties, if he was on top he was lifted above her so he could look down at her nips.  He fell into a trance, mesmerized by watching her knockers bounce and sway, which extended his stamina to pleasing lengths.  Carol had surprised him by scheduling herself for a modest breast augmentation in honor of his 40th birthday.  She didn’t mind this insignificant aspect of their love life.  She got plenty of attention, sufficient stimulation and honest appreciation.  He was a tit man.  It worked to make him frisky, that’s all she knew.  (She decided to have them tightened and gently rounded, nothing ostentatious.  Fine tuning, not a renovation.  See, not everybody does what I suggest but I concede Carol had the right idea for them.)

They were buying erotic artwork through me, the breast info came up when we were discussing the purchase of a painting I thought they’d like: a frontal nude.  Carol said, oh, no, she wasn’t going to have Barney staring holes through the canvas, and I realized that although the female breast was featured in many of their choices it was the swell from the side, the strain against fabric, with the crown never fully revealed.  For Barney’s fiftieth birthday she assembled a collage of twenty-five female frontal nudes and mounted it on a reversible frame, the other side featured an art print.  She wrapped it so he exposed the neutral print first, then asked him to turn it around and hold it up so she could see it, and there were the fifty tits right in front of his eyes!  Big, small, dark, light, round, oblong, puffy, upturned, jutting!  Carol and Barney used the hanging as a signal, boob side out when they were home alone and sex was in the air.

|||||

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers

KathleenKBooks.com for complete catalog

#novelporn #sexotic #KathleenK

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Sweet Talkers: the seminal voice of indie-author Kathleen K.

My first book was published in New York City in 1994, brokered by a real literary agent, back when this was the only route to readers.

hires_frontcover             hires_backcover

Sweet Talkers (Words from the Mouth of a Pay-to-Say Girl) was an outspoken chronicle of an actual phone-sex business and the masturbatory fantasies it was based upon.  The book went to paperback in 1997 then slipped out of print.  It has been an online collectible for over fifteen years.

Jamie is the narrator, the alter-ego who runs the tele-erotic business meaning she trains the operators and works the line and interviews potential talent by getting frisky to see if they can follow.  She is the seminal voice (how could I resist?).  The dual punch of literal call diary excerpts like this:

Noon to 4 p.m. on a Wednesday in February

12:02 Relieve Helen; 12:04 silent; 12:06 silent; 12:16

silent;; 12:29-30 how’s your pussy?; 12:32-33 silent;

12:42 silent; 12:59-1:08 interview style, graphic

technique; 1:??-12 do you do girls? same caller,

slow to interact; 1:13 silent; 1:19-26 5’10”, 165#, has

girlfriend, masturbation; 1:28-29 new caller, couple

of questions; 1:30-31 b.j.; 1:34-35 background

a-hems to a provocative but discreet come-on from

me; 1:36-40 1st call, kind of different, might like a

moaner; 1:47-56 hard to hear, either ‘what sex’ or

‘butt sex’; 1:57-2:03 Hawaii, lucky there, sexy talk

until he thanks me a lot; multi-listeners through

both connections, all scatter when talker departs;

2:10-19 young, kissing style, sensuous, lots of girls,

good body, work out (well-defined), great “cut

up” stomach, 5’9”, 165#, 8% body fat, bone hard,

likes long sessions, quickies OK; 2:20-27 no jack

off, problem is he likes sex, gets too wound up, b.j.

standing up, doesn’t eat out unclean crotch, bathe

in oils to massage; 2:34-43 creeeeeeek, silent!; 2:36-

43 hello, sexy talk with listeners, let’s all scream

together?; 2:44 hello, click; 2:49-58 called back, love

dog, use images later, big dick is a problem (9”), likes

to listen; 2:59-3:08 fuck scene, big dick, relate to real

fuck, needs wide hipped, deep cunted female, loves

to hear about big cunts (hand fit the glove); 3:27-

?? silent; 3:18-25 pretend to be wife being eaten by

someone else since he won’t BUT THEN HE DOES;

3:29-33 one talker, not much feedback, 2 silent; 3:34

someone still on??; 3:35-37 cock in hand, would

gladly feed it to me; 3:??-28 silent or hangup; 3:53-

4:02 was male model for bachelorette party, six gals,

6’2”, blond, 180#, 25-30 year old “audience,” couple

of hours, tie on bed for pics but stuck thermometer

in his prick, didn’t hurt at all (!?), (bride-to-be didn’t

play); 4:00 Sybil arrives, what’s a gigolo, caller said it

wasn’t a man who seduces women for their money

or prestige… reassured her he was wrong.

())(())(())(()

and re-created phone calls like this:

“I’m back, it’s me, Steve.”

“Hi, buddy. What’s happening in the video now?”

“The redhead is on her knees sucking the black dude while the

white guy fingers her ass, she’s got great tits, bouncy.”

“That turn you on?”

“Oh, yeah, three-somes! It’s my all-time fantasy.”

“Pretend I look like the redhead if you like, imagine your hands

on my body.”

“Jamie, get on your back, OK?”

“OK, hold on, yeah, I’m on the bed, on my back. I’m naked.”

“Lift your knees and spread them, wide, real wide, until it

almost hurts, yes, spread ‘em, I just want to look at your pussy, I

stop the video at the cunt shots, I love women!”

“I’ve got a muscular pussy, pink-lipped, large and well-defined,

with a thick patch of black pubic hair I keep trimmed.”

“I could play with you for hours, like we could watch videos and

I’d just stroke you.”

“I get so wet, Steve, sticky-sweet and sexy. Run your finger

down the slit, right into my secret hole, the one I dare to show

you… think of my hands on my thighs spreading wide for you so

you can see it, feel it.”

“I fast-forwarded to a cum scene, Jamie, I’ve watched it a million

times, she’s masturbating on her back with her knees open, the

camera is right there! You can see her whole body get rigid, she

gets so close… I know what she’s feeling!”

“Imagine me just like that with you as the camera, you are

filming it for your imagination, you can see me open and inviting

you closer, my cunt-hole is dripping I’m so excited, and my fingers

are shoving my mound around, making my clit throb, my hips are

lifting off the bed, you zoom in closer…”

“Ohhh, yeahhh, I zoom in closer…”

“You see it happen, you have captured it forever…”

“I watch it, close up, tight, you come in my face, right in my

face, I can feel you come.”

“Such a pretty pussy, she likes you.”

“Ohh, I can’t thank you enough, especially that zoom-thing, it

was perfect.”

“Darlin’, you can direct me anytime. Remember me when

you’re watching videos, OK?”

“You bet, Jamie, you bet I will. Bye, ‘till next time.”

())(())(())(()

and commentary like this:

People will ask me if I talk like this to my lovers. Repeat after

me, people: Jamie is a character, and, as part of her character,

then, yes, lovers are talked to this way.

Only one caller has admitted to having a “love doll,” a life-size

plastic surrogate love-object, and I didn’t hear that until after I’d

worked over 1,000 hours on the line. He said it was no good on

top, no pressure, but was OK to lay on top of and hump into… it

wasn’t as if he TALKED to it, after all.

())(())(())(()

earned the book critical praise and reader enthusiasm.  Here’s what readers have told me:

 “I read it one-handed.”

“Wore it out.  Bought a replacement (and a spare).”

“Filthy.  Positively filthy.  Thank you!”

“This isn’t a book, it’s   a film-treatment with dialog included.    If you can cast the right Jamie, everybody else plays a cameo.””

“It’s a bedside reader for sure; I keep mine in the nightstand   with the toys!”

“So many hilarious beautiful words pinpointing that singular   feeling of passionate release.”

“Loved it, didn’t think I would but I   very much did!”

“I want to recommend it but I’m not   sure who to, it’s really steamy and kind of sweet.”

I’m 20 pages in and can’t put the book down. This is getting me all   kinds of wild!

())(())(())(()

Spurred on by the moderate success of this non-fiction porn book, I authored over a dozen books while trying to figure out a gateway to rowdier readers.  Publish-on-Demand is the answer for me.  It takes about 90 days to bring a finished manuscript to book form including cover design and interior proofs.  I’ve got book #11 in production now.  CreateSpace.com allows me to “bank” book masters for print and Kindle while I promote the collection of adults-only and all-age narrative fiction.  Priced to share.

Jamie lives on in all the books, she’s sassy and wise and oddly thoughtful.  She channels all those guys who told her what they wanted, what they really really wanted, was for somebody to want them.

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

#erotica #phone-sex #sexysexy

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You have to tell the truth about booze to face the facts about pot.

Liquor is not the problem in the same way that guns are not the problem.  It’s about people.  Many people don’t drink at all.  Most drinkers like the buzz, they use it to celebrate and commiserate.  Then there are the ones who overdose themselves to sickness and death.  Pot will have the same mix of users but at its worst it is still safer than alcohol because it is highly unlikely you would overdose on it.

The second tier of impact is what happens to others in the presence of a drinker or a toker.  Drinkers brawl; stoners laugh at each other.  Drinkers drive aggressively, repeatedly, while potheads creep along, paranoid and over-thinking. The heart of our lies about alcohol pertain to drunk driving.  We allow carnage rather than face the facts.  We have repeat offenders being excused and nobody can explain why that is.

If you factor booze into domestic violence and sexual assaults you arrive at the conclusion that drinking is an accelerant like gasoline on emotions.  Pot is a gentle stimulator, breezy and befuddling.  You can mess up on either but not all trouble is created equal.

We’re talking about intoxicants with no other purpose than to alter biochemistry.  At that level, alcohol and recreational marijuana are the same.  It is a lifestyle choice just like playing cards or tossing horse shoes (you know, you can kill somebody with a horse shoe).  That’s the main reason I believe herb should be regulated like any other grown-up feel-good stuff.  Most of us will be fine, some may need to curtail consumption, and, yes, there will be addicts.  That’s the truth about drinking and toking.  It’s that freedom thing, to associate and to worship, to live your life within local community standards or face shunning (prison).  Hoist a few, blaze up, but keep your hands to yourself and yourself off the road.

 After pg 24         Barry “Mandot” Messer

SAMPLE — For high-spirited readers

from the potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs of Stoner

Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

Drinking just ain’t for me.  I went down that path a ways, and must say the neighborhood tavern provided me some wonderful evenings.  At first, you think you’re drawn to the people but eventually you realize it’s the fog you like, drunk is drunk varying only in degree.  I was a different “me” after a few beers, plus I was emboldened by the others’ inebriation.  Besides, it says something when you meet a person in a tavern:  it isn’t church, it isn’t work, and it isn’t home.

I got sponsored into one tavern’s in-crowd by a lady I knew.  She lived alone in a tall skinny house about three blocks from the bar.  I learned this location was critical to her plan to avoid a second DUI.  She intended to be impaired when she left the neighborhood bar (about 11:15 p.m.), that was the point of her drinking after all.  She wanted to get convivial, boozy, but leave before the mood turned at midnight.  She didn’t pay attention to the road when in that frame of mind and, since she wasn’t going to quit drinking any time soon, she found a way to drink and not drive.  We’d stroll the short distance home, still jazzed by the interaction down at the tavern, old enough to know how to attain and maintain intoxication.

Donna and I made a good pair, she had a wry and biting wit that kept me on my mental toes.  She was tart without being bitter.  She had yellow hair and royal blue eyes that turned black in the moonlight.  I thought of Nordic maidens when I became familiar with her body.  Her shoulders and hips were in proportion with a long sturdy torso between them.  Her skin was the color of sunshine on a white rose, glowing with the feel of pink.  She liked to burrow against my body wearing only a bra and panties, me confined only by my underwear.  Tactile stimulation: her rounded thighs resting against my leaner ones, the scent of her neck distinct from the ever-clean smell of her hair.

Donna didn’t get naked with the lights on.  Period.  She had to gentle herself down when in the maddening grasp of the male.  It flipped switches in her so we learned to let the agitation drain away.  She explained to me how often men rejected her because they didn’t want to wait until she relaxed.  Unlike me, they failed to sustain the arousing sensation of body contact without advancing their own agenda.  I’d while away the time thinking sensuous thoughts and suppressing my own impetuous sexuality to reach for a deeper, more mystical approach.  She was slow to warm but then she held her heat.

She had installed one of those clapper switches on her love lamp, the specific light she kept on so she wouldn’t get naked until she was good and ready.  It cast a flattering light on us both, just enough illumination to see her nipples thicken against the fabric of her bra.  She especially liked to touch my cock while I was still wearing my underwear.  It made me feel anonymously explored, palpitated.  Donna was assessing strength and flexibility, the weight and length of me.  She was dull-minded from the liquor wearing off and half-lulled to sleep by our quiet cuddling, she slipped into a sexual mood like a drip gathers itself to drop.

Her lovemaking style was passive, she placed herself in my hands.  I’d learned to tell her when to move, and she always did when I told her to, but she didn’t move if I didn’t say so.  She had told me about her first husband’s teasing her overeager humping but it was so long ago she couldn’t remember if he was right about that.  She didn’t want to know.  Her pleasant acceptance of our shared sensations kept our lovemaking from becoming passionate.  She was grieving her second husband, a man rendered impotent by advanced diabetes, a suicide (by morphine overdose) ((no one ever admitted to supplying him the needle, the drugs, but I was convinced Donna hadn’t done so, I came to believe it was his brother who thought it was love to let him go)).  To capitalize on the tender side of their marital love but diminish the frustration she remained in her panties and bra with him when they slept together.  He said he couldn’t bear to see her naked, it would be a feast set in front of a man with his teeth wired shut.  In the dark he could pet her to orgasm, in the dark he could liberate her breasts; still, even in the dark, he could be overcome by a lack of physical fulfillment that broke both their hearts.  No kick.  All these years later, she didn’t give her nakedness to me because it had been denied to her true lover.

The tavern Donna and I frequented served unsalted peanuts and low salt pretzels, the eating was not to stimulate your thirst (the camaraderie did that).  It is congenial to snack from a shallow bowl of simple food chased by cold beer.  It was the bar’s habit to order food in about eight o’clock, we rotated through Italian, Chinese, Deli, Fish’n Chips that we ate family style.  The bartender got free eats for organizing the order.

It was important to Donna that “her tavern” was not dark and hopeless, it wasn’t filled with sodden drunks smelling vaguely of piss (perhaps because it dribbled on their shoe tops).  This place entertained people who played pool, or cards, they provided music for the sound system and would play guest selections if the majority didn’t object.  The newspaper was pulled out, and far-reaching discussions ensued.  They always hoisted one after reading first the births, then the weddings, finally the obituaries, out loud.

Donna had never slept with one of the guys from the tavern, it would have changed her whole “sister” dynamic.  She didn’t want to reveal herself to any specific one of them, it was important to her that her man be seen as an import, with no history of his own with these people.  In the first place, she and I could agree to presenting a certain face of our relationship, it appeared to others that I was in pursuit of her while the fact was I’d been drawn into the situation by Donna’s invitation.  I played the woo-er, the beau, so that she could tease me for the benefit of our crowd. A drinking crowd.

After a few hours visiting with them, the edges of the room disappeared and all the action seemed to center around our tables.  We’d have sudden death double-solitaire game crowding out the beer mugs on one table, at another the ashtray might be filled with bottle tops we were saving to flip against the curb later.  (The various twists and warps of the cap added a high degree of difficulty — they weren’t uniform like pennies for pitching.) Donna would sit with one leg thrown over mine, or her hand on my thigh, physically connected with me in a proprietary way; our relationship served some purpose in the group, lent her substance as an individual by being the member of a pair.  I was loyal and true to her, it would have been a sacrilege to eye other women when we were in our little world.

I was smoking dope on my own, she didn’t mix pot with beer.  Once in a while somebody would bring in a joint and I’d step outside to take a few tokes to be sociable but then it wasn’t really like getting stoned all the way, it was a head-topper.  In a sense, I was appreciated for “being myself” when I wasn’t being me at all.  I was playing the role of Donna’s man friend.

Donna was more the pill type than I expected, she loved to slip into a downer drowse, timing herself to get home before the serious lassitude struck her limbs.  It wasn’t my kind of high (low) to share but I didn’t mind her enjoying herself in this way.  She’d be too out of it to really take care of herself, I’d have to guide her to the bathroom and wait outside the door calling out reminders of what to do next; once I piloted her back to bed I’d solemnly explain what I hoped to achieve sexually and she’d nod along earnestly but then she forget and seemed surprised – every time – when my hand slid between her legs.

Even relaxed to a literal hover, she still didn’t want to be naked with the lights on and I respected this.  The lights were out before the underwear came off.

The room would not be pitch black, moonlight could creep in, there was a streetlight on the next lot, once in a while she’d allow a small candle to flicker.  It forced me into a tactile dimension where I had to imagine her ass by its contour and her snatch by its scent.  I knew her nipples were large and dark, dense.  Breasts low-slung with a pleasing uptilt.  Her hips were fleshed over and smooth but still perceptibly forming a basin for her compact pussy.  It seemed her clit was snuggled up to her pussy, barely covered by her shallow mound.  It was easy to involve that nub in our lovemaking.

She did let me nudge her butt cheeks open when she was on downers, once in a while she’d relax enough to let me prod at the hole there incidentally/accidentally for a few minutes but she was adamant there’d be no actual butt sex.  She indulged my request for this type of arousal because I was so cooperative about the lack of visual nudity.

At her request, I wore a leather blindfold one night so she could see me in the mirror naked and fucking her.  I helped her set up.  I felt foolishly excited by this concept:  used by her, serving her.  Once readied, I couldn’t see a thing, no sliver of movement, no shadow shapes.  I especially liked when she got astride me and I felt her swivel so I knew she was looking back over her shoulder at the mirror to watch her backside plunging on me and off me.  I could imagine what it looked like from what it felt like for me to be her platform.

I reached up and pressed her breasts back against her ribs, holding her there, she had solid-feeling flesh that filled my palms.  She’d lift herself into my hands, shoving her belly down tight against me and arching her back so I had the sensation of capturing her in flight.  I’d thumb her nubby nipples until I felt it in her pussy.

()()()()()

I went through one-hitter pipes every few months, doing minimal maintenance, until the active one got too sticky to use.  I dropped it into some pipe cleaner and brought out another one, same shape and weight, fresh.  I double-tap the bowl, sucking up the high, alone at home.  I wander around, touching talismans, blowing dust off framed moments.   This was my place, it held my things, it welcomed my visitors, and anchored me in the deepest way.  I had freedom in this refuge, I was myself here.

Getting high before my walk meant I’d have to plan ahead, avoid distractions, stay true to the mind-altering I’d instigated, savor it.  From my den to my door to the sidewalk then toward the residential section, away from the bakeries and bars and quickie marts and all those hellos.  I was one of many people feeling at ease moving through a friendly neighborhood.  I welcomed my thoughts against a backdrop of family life, toys on the lawn, grill on the back porch; all these other people were acting out the scenes I remember as a kid.  I don’t feel the need to pass this knowledge down to another generation, not like these others who are doing so every day.  I’m glad ‘community’ exists and I can trust it to endure, it’s our successful adaptation to tribal politics.  I’ve got a clan, I pledge allegiance to the flag, I accept the modern way of life.  I’m a frequent flyer in the head-osphere.  I’m just as good at landing as I am at getting off.

()()()()()

“I am major mellow, Captain Cooked.”

“It’s a creeper weed.  Sneaks up on you, it needs time to ripen.”

“Ripe sounds good.  I’m baked.  Toasted.  Completely completed.”

“As long as you’re not wasted.”

()()()()()

I was surprised how many women expected me to start mooching once we were intimate.  Evidently, lots of men slip this way.  Since I believe each adult should have a way to sustain their own life, I was not in need of a “boost” from the budget of a lover.  It would have offended me if I was expected to “assist” in the living expenses of someone else, whether or not it was for sexual access.  That’s part of the here-and-now for me.  I can observe mooching as a fact but can’t “feel” it for myself.  It didn’t bug me when I kicked in money for a new roof for my cousin’s house because it was a tenth anniversary present.  They could use their own hard-won roof savings for a surprise weekend honeymoon… that’s how my family helps its people.  Lift one burden.  Wipe out one worry.  Expect them to handle the rest.

I adopted a neighborhood nursing home and tithed to its general fund.  It wasn’t hard to explain to myself why I thought this was due… if those that could help did help, we’d eliminate some stresses on all of us. The donated ten percent seemed easy to calculate and was rooted in my idea of a worshipping society.  I wasn’t going to be attending any sermons soon but it didn’t mean that I was exempt from good works.  There are amenities not funded through Medicare that can make life easier for our seniors.

Would I be so generous if I didn’t have the money?  I am frugal by nature and legally unencumbered so it wasn’t hard to relax into the comfort of sending in some off the top, like it was taxes, it made me feel like a citizen, not just a voter.  If I earned less, I’d still tithe.

When I examine my character I know that this is a profound part of my value system, a basis for my other decisions.  I don’t know how other people feel but it is apparent that many of us compare ourselves to what we think we ought to be and seek peace in our choices.  At times I sit in my place and feel so right-with-the-world that it’s risky to acknowledge it (jinx it).  My extended family respects my contributions to our lives together as living acts of commitment, I am there for them, with them. They’re with me.  This is what you do to build family links that last.  I invest my time in them.   Same so the other loves of my life.  Because they matter.  To me.

()()()()()

If you, like me, like sex and, like me, like drugs, you may like sex on drugs, like me.  Or you might not.  And that’s cool too.

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

KathleenKBooks.com

#erotica #stonerliteracy #KathleenK #indaclub

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A Musing on BJ’s and Big Betties — Reading Erotica — Vintage Boomer Porn

For those of you reading this web log with a discerning eye, you see a playful construction of hints and glimmers cloaked by a breezy freewheeling attitude.  The style is colloquial.  Idiomatic.  Inclusive language supports the narrative sense that this is a story being told to you with native fluency.  It’s fun to read because it rolls along then STOPS, turns and returns.

frontcover    backcover

The books are naughtier than they look… the covers are deliberately modified to mask the sharp images inside.  Discretion without deception.  The tagline for The Lunarium is “One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched.”  The reader puts the spin on it.  Watching who, watching what?  This kaleidoscope of frank sexuality and sly innuendo was Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013 because of its verve.

1.  creative enthusiasm: enthusiasm, energy, or spirit, especially in the expression of artistic ideas

2. vitality: lively vigorous spirit

Synonyms: vitality · energy · dynamism · vigor · vim · dash · spirit · life · animation

All these erotic-sexotic-graphic books share that same layered flavor; smart and sassy and chill.  Authoritative voices are offhand and intimate to reach a cross-section of people.  Writers and readers have to share the translation table quickly in order to connect.  These books do that with provocative charm.

Stoner is a two-part fictional memoir of reefer and romance.  Counterculture all the way but reverent and sacramental too.  There may be “wham”, there may be “bam”, but there is way more than just a “thank you, ma’am.”  Smokin’ Hot.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

SAMPLE FOR ILLUSTRATIVE PURPOSES ONLY

    Reader Discretion is advised.

BJ after sex?  Rare enough to deserve its own section.

When the sex acts meld together and go from kissing to fingering to facing to dicking to facing to fingering to dicking again then the totality of that exchange is reabsorption.  You taste of each other, mixed and heated; you’ve given over all of it, every bit of it, in exchange for the same surrender.  There’s something daring about trusting each other with the grimaces of pleasure, the hissy rasp of sexual demands:  ordinary words sound dirty by their inflection.  There’s a challenge and response volley, an escalating verbalization, when body language isn’t enough.

In the best sex, it all churns together, my taste, her smell, the intimate grunting, aware that underlying it all is the sharing of your everything, your every naked heaving thing, rubbed in under the skin, spurted inside, dripping out, mingling.

The feel of her just-fucked cunt on this man’s face evokes an understanding of what we’ve done, how I’ve battered the gateway and thrust into her, resulting in a slick swollen slot.  Her copious wetness required a dab of a towel, a swiping away of the excess, so as to treasure the sheen left behind, the ferocious glory of secrets shared.  This is what she really feels like, really tastes like, really looks like, when she’s fully and totally aroused.  We’re way beyond flirtation here, beyond the guessing game of will we?  We have, we are, we do.  We can.  Will we ever.

≤÷≥

Penis fracture

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[speechless]

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Candles through cascading amber teardrops throw seven spots of light in a dark living room.  I’m fixated on the light so I could gather my thoughts, I’m higher faster than I expected, and I recalibrate my expectations.  The stone came on full-bodied and bemusing (which sounds a whole lot better than discombobulating, and adds a shade of humor when at the time it felt herky-jerky.)

I’d been fed a spicy Thai dinner served by my sometimes friend LaLinda, my college love, my young adult goddess.  These many years later she’s still my tokin’ buddy.  Alone together in her living room in the soft light l felt how loaded we were, how gloriously strong and enduring our attraction, that our sexing hadn’t only been about our new skin and carefree hearts.  It turned out to be stronger than that, whatever it had been still existed between us.  I had no idea what was going to happen next which was OK with me since I’d expressed a seismic thought:  it really was forever for us.  Not forever passion, nor forever cold, deeper still was the source and that would not die between us, we were hooked up that way by our natures.

There’s a certain “one for the road” feeling to our love that night, we were in an oasis with clear margins, out of time, like we like to think we were back when we all thought everything mattered so very mucho much.  Older now, we know what matters is the moment because those moments power the world.  LaLinda had topped her high with two shots of tequila, giving her a loose abandoned attitude, so when she pulled out her Big Betties I wasn’t surprised.  She had to be drunk to talk like that, I’d seen this side of her on rare occasion so I knew to turn off the auto-pilot and use my instru­ments for the landing.  She beckoned me from across the room and even from that distance I could tell that she was ready for me.  I’m making the maximum contact with her when I understand we’ll always come down to this, I notch in deeper and press for more:  she’s tangy sassy with a dash of told-you-so, my favorite flavor.

Her attitude toward the Betties was hilarious:  she obviously considered them planted on her chest like man-beacons.  She would ask me, gee, what could she do to hide them?  Look how they rose up in her blouse, surged out of her bra, and once bared were aquiver.  It was immodest of her to point out their solid nubs but she was right, they were very… nubby.  I thrilled at her response to my touch, I trusted her body to tell me what she felt comfortable with, she knew I’d do anything to please her including stopping what displeased her.  She asked if I’d mind if she knelt at the edge of the bed, her panties pulled up with her back bare.  I undercupped her breasts and then pulled her up just a bit, to change the angle of her bottom, then I stopped and she remained on display, I felt her in my arms against my body, but I was still outside of her, still up against her undies until she told me to pull them down.

With her heart in my hands, I let loose my admiration of her every crevice, we were entwined for that specific purpose, we agreed to appreciate simple physical achievements so I prodded her with toys, and swatted her with my cock, we were having a great time for old time’s sake.  She’d be moving on the next day so I loaded her up to the best of my ability.  I gave her tender bites and deep tissue internal massage, I told her how gorgeous she felt in my hands, ripe and rich and oh so ready.

It’s what she liked, what I’d ascertained she liked, and so I gave that to her when she signaled for it.  Usually we were more matter of fact but when she wanted praise and stamina I’d have an extended opportunity to DO stuff to her, I never ever tired of that.

≤÷≥

“I never thought you’d do that.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

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“I thought you’d never do that.”

“I never thought you’d ask.”

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